Whoppers

I swear to god, whoppers will be the bane of my existence. There are about 60 whoppers in each box. Which adds up to a whopping—no pun intended—76 grams of sugar, but I'm going to ignore that fact, I think the measurement of one whopper is more poignant. Here's my gripe with the FDA; they make me do the math of how much is actually in one box. For some reason, they label the nutrition facts by serving size. Who pays attention to that shit? I want to know how much is in one box and allot it myself. Anyways, I've had 8 boxes of whoppers in 2 weeks. Thats 480 fucking whoppers! If I keep up this rate for a month, thats almost 1000 Whoppers per month! 12,000 whoppers per year! 120,000 whoppers in a decade. By the time I'm my parents age,  I'm going to have consumed 372,000 Whoppers!

Enough of these outrageous numbers though, think about my shame. For two weeks, almost every other day, except on weekends because they're closed, I've gone and got a box of whoppers from the commissary on the ground floor of my dorm. Every day, the same cute girl is working there. I walk to the back of their tidy selection and dully look at the candy, anxious to take them to the register. Just like last time, there's only one box of whoppers missing: the one I bought a few days ago. The worst part of this is having to face the same girl every time. I can't help but think she's noticed my habits by now. I'm the only one in this dorm who buys any goddamn whoppers! Of all candy, why do I have such an affinity for these? I feel awful when she smiles at me and swipes my card as if I'm doing nothing wrong. Maybe she hasn't recognized my pattern yet. I smile and wish her a good night every time; and as if she didn't just sell them to me, I quickly conceal the whoppers behind the counter and walk back to the elevator, cowering in shame from the eyes of my peers bearing down in judgment.

I remember my first experience with whoppers. I must've been somewhere between 10 or 12  staying with my family in Salt Lake City. My cousin and I were tucked in secret room under the stairwell, maybe planning out our next prank or discussing the nuances of our zombie survival plan. There was a box of stale strawberry whoppers in one of the drawers, leftover from the movie theater. I don't remember what it tasted like or if I enjoyed it, but I remember the concept of strawberry whoppers very vividly. Later that day, my dad, my cousin, and I stopped at a blockbuster beneath the looming shadows of the Wasatch mountain range. I can't remember what exactly the store looked like inside, but the composite image of this visit that my brain has pieced together is a dreamlike flow of feeling dwarfed by the massive, snowy peaks. Then, a hopeful anxiety upon entering the store. I was giddy at the prospect of being able to pick out a movie from the expansive selection; even looking at the men with guns or the women in bikinis on the covers was a treat for me. We selected a horror movie—I don't remember the name, but it scared us and became one of our favorites. Our exited fear only grew as we drove up the dim incline while the sun set on our mountain destination. Here's what I can't tell though: I have a memory of getting more strawberry whoppers in the Blockbuster. I think I fabricated that idea though.

Forget the strawberry whoppers and forget the movie I forgot the name of. I wish I could go back and relive some of this stuff. I love to think of family memories from the perspective of young me. I can literally feel the awe and excitement things as a kid. The lens of nostalgia is a powerful tool of deception, but still, when's the last time I felt anxious excitement about picking a movie up from the rental store—or genuinely felt grateful and content that I got a box of candy. Now, here I am, inundated with movies and whoppers. I'm locked in a state perpetual disappointment and craving for more. More whoppers! Only 480 more to fill my chocolatey, malty, dopamine quota! More, more, more... There are so many choices of things to waste my time with, it's like I don't even see a movie or an episode of a tv show as a treat anymore. They're just waiting behind my computer screen, in gargantuan numbers, ready to distract me from my pathetic existence of reminiscing on the past and waiting for the next big thing to entertain me. It's not the first time I've thought of this, but the box of whoppers sitting on my desk, watching my type, keeps reminding me. The concept of living in the moment is so foreign to the westernized brain. Surely I can't keep treading this same path, I'm sick of these stupid fucking whoppers and everything they stand for.

Summer Baseball: A Retrospective

I will never forget this evening—so here, in the words of the man himself, let Charlie Russell explain how it happened.

This past summer [2019], it was a day like any other, yet quite a hot one for the Bay Area. Some friends and I were going to the A’s game against the Seattle Mariners. I left the house with my giant green overcoat since that was the only green piece of clothing that I had to match the teams colors, along with my baseball mitt from when I was a kid so I could hopefully fulfill my childhood dream of catching a foul ball. As we got on the train to take us to the coliseum, we were welcomed by the familiar scent of piss and dirt that is the aromatic staple of Bay Area Rapid Transportation or BART for short. When we got to the stadium, we walked through the tunnel toward the stadium that’s always lined with people trying to desperately sell off-brand merchandise, bacon wrapped hot dogs and luke warm beers. After going through security, we made our way to our seats. Even though the tickets said that we were supposed to sit on the second deck of the stadium, we thought we could try and sneak our way to the front couple of rows behind Mariners dugout so we can heckle them. Unfortunately, the security guard at the section didn't believe that we lost our tickets and sent us away. So we settled with the second deck seats behind the plate and watched the game proceed. During one of the later innings in the game, one of my more beloved players, Matt Chapman, went up to bat. The pitcher threw a howler of a ball and Matt swung. The ball cracked up and instead of flying out of the park like they usually go, the ball shot backwards, over the cage and towards our seats. I jumped up and over the row in front of us to the railing of the second deck. I knew this was gonna be it, the ball was coming right towards me. As it came hurtling down it whizzed right passed my glove that was outstretched over the railing. I was disappointed for the moment, but I didn't realize that the ball had bounced off the stairs on the deck 20 feet below me and floated back up to the second deck and dropped right in my glove. In pure bewilderment on how I made the catch, I ran up and down the row in a childish craze celebrating with my friends. I was congratulated by the fans around us and in my high horse state of mind, I cashed out 14 dollars on a foot long corn dog from one of the vendors who was at our row right after I caught the ball. Still riding off the adrenaline rush, I was filled with euphoria knowing that I finally accomplished this aspiration that I’ve carried in my mind for the past 18 years. As the innings went by the game finished with an A’s win over the Brewers followed by everyone in the coliseum moving down the classic firework show put on by the stadium.

Me enjoying the final kernels

After a few 40s and the pen

Charlie posing with his hardware

Sitting on the field!

Fireworks!!!

Here's a link to the game highlights!

Runaway

Cody B.
Journalism writing 1
Mr. Smith
1/21/2020

My movie review: Runaway (2019)

Written, directed, and produced by Wildcard and Rafi Soto productions, the film is an emotive tale of skateboarding, mean parents, and rugged individualism . It stars Logan Brockbank, Thomas Murphy. Although the film looks to have a budget ranging in the thousands, the actual costs were meager combination of gas money and the chicken nuggets from Wendy's and Burger King. I was pleasantly surprised by the acting as well. Without any formal training, Mr. Brockbank and Mr. Murphy led astoundingly authentic roles. I had a hard time realizing they were just characters, not real people that I've spent time with before.

Overall, Runaway exceeded my expectations and really made me question the structure of our society. Since when can my dad just kick me out of the house for the night because I spent thanksgiving dinner in my room playing Madden 11 on my Ps3. Sorry I fucking hate turkey and everyone in our family stinks like cigarettes—and I swear aunt Shelly uses the same febreze scent we have in our bathroom as her perfume. The least you could do is let me have a glass of wine with dinner, but no, I have to sneak vodka in the bathroom. I swear I'm gonna be a alcoholic when I'm older and it will be your fault. If ever feel like me and just want to run away, then do it. Take your skateboard and your car and your allowance money and your change of clothes and sleeping bag and live on your own like a man. Enough of this socialism bullshit were learning about in school. I worked for everything I have—no body gave this shit to me! And yeah, I know, my uncle gave me my car, but it was a birthday present so that's different. Maybe this movie isn't as good as Kill Bill or Saving Private Ryan but it still resonated with me.

The only part I didn't like was the ending because it was gay, if that was me in the movie I wouldn't have gone home to my dad, I would have stayed on the streets. I'm a drifter at heart—if you've seen me walking around during lunch you'd understand. I'm like Aragorn from Lord of the Rings, I may seem like a mysterious and woesome ranger now, but one day I get to be the fucking king. In conclusion, Mr. Smith your a dick and this is probably going to be my last assignment I submit. I don't care if you call me a gifted writer, you still gave me a C on my op-ed. Sorry that I think the kids in are class are freeloaders who never earned a dollar in their life. Maybe they would understand if their dad stole $100 of their dogsitting money even though we already made a deal that he would pay for the cost of building a PC if I promised to use it for homework only. In conclusion, Runaway was an haunting depiction of what our parents drive us to do, a cautionary tale for adults, and an inspiring story for young men like me.

New Recipe: Bitter Coffee

New Recipe: Bitter Coffee

1. Brew cup of Starbuck's decaf coffee—I noticed they released a new blend, "Christmas Blend Vintage 2019," What the fuck? I guess it sounds neat to say, "this is a Cabernet Sauvignon vintage 2009" in front of your house guests before dinner, but Starbucks coffee? Sounds dumb to me. Though I think the "Christmas Blend Vintage 2019" is supposed to be alright according to this review. Anyways, brew yourself cup of pour-over coffee in a stolen IHOP mug.

2. Add ~8 dashes of Angostura Bitters and stir. If you don't want to dirty a spoon, add the bitters 1/3 of the way through your pour so the following flow of coffee helps the mixture coalesce.

As long as you brewed your coffee right and it isn't too bitter or bland, I find the bitters add a whole 'nother level of complexity to your coffee. However, this recipe is carefully tailored for less fortunate coffee grounds, if you will; I would ere on the side of caution around expensive coffee which should be enjoyed without excessive doctoring.

They say that opposites attract. In the culinary world, this concept is especially important. You don't put butter on a piece of cheese—unless you are fat—rather, you would complement the richness of your cheese with a spicy-sweet pepper jelly or a little, sour pickle. My initial fears about the "Bitter Coffee" recipe stemmed out of my hardheaded belief in looney folklore and fear of the menacing double bitter. I couldn't have known until I tasted it for myself but this recipe is a wonderful way to liven your morning brew. Next week I will discuss the nuances of mugs.

Wildcardrussell Vlog Entry #1 & #2: Winter Break 2019

God is good. It seems we've been able to figure out a way to house wildcardrussell's vlogs. These episodes include a slew of activities from freshman soccer and beer die, to secret Santa and Garrett Post. Please enjoy wildcard's smooth editing and superior music selection. It's like you're really there! Shelvey!!!!



Soccer Saturday



Secret Santa

Inaugural Post

Hear ye, hear ye! Come one and come all to Slumberjacker's inaugural blog entry!

My blog has been a long awaited affair by only me. 

Back before I ever frequented the Internet, people had blogs. In 18, almost 19 years of my life, I've never met someone who has a blog (that I knew of). I guess blogs have slowly morphed into social media. Humans have always had a need to share things about themselves—I say that without evidence, but it sounds right. Instead of blogs we use instagram, facebook, twitter, etc. However, sharing things about ourselves on the Internet has become absurdly corporatized and streamlined. There's no social media I know of that nurtures creativity or individuality, instead, we share things based on what we believe our followers will enjoy. All the while being bombarded by ads, virtue signalers, pseudo-activism, cornball-ass-bitches, propaganda and our government's prying eyes.  Social media is a cesspool right now. I don't claim to be the first one to make this point nor am I upon a horse denouncing those who use social media. Maybe though, we should take a step back and return to the "golden age" of the internet—I think it would be more fulfilling. 

Hopefully I'll put up some pictures, link some videos, review some music, discuss movies or books, and draft up whatever's on my mind. I also hope to house some of wildcardrussell's vlogs, who's videos were deleted from YouTube because of "copyright violations." As if videos made for the sole purpose of recording our escapades are going to profit from Universal Music Group's "property." Real fucking joke if you ask me. Bunch of corporate big wigs jerking each other off. 

Still, my efforts are solely aesthetic. Perhaps I could learn to code HTML and purchase my own website domain. For now though, I will reside in the Google owned subsidiary, Blogger. 

I hereby declare the advent of a new era; my return to the blog.